


Indiscretions

by MasterOfAllImagination



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, One Shot Collection, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, and a lot of really self-indulgent smut, desperate handjobs, featuring sad clingy dirty talk between sad clingy boyfriends, more high-pitched moans than a haunted house, some messy fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-08-26 16:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16685203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterOfAllImagination/pseuds/MasterOfAllImagination
Summary: [Revised & Expanded]James, Francis, and sex; ten different ways.(Individual descriptions in chapter titles/notes.)





	1. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As these were written merely for my own gratification, I did not originally intend to publish them. However, knowing that this is a small fandom and that every new fic is therefore all the more precious, I eventually decided that my own reticence was insufficient reason not to share. It is my hope that at least a few of them end up being exactly the fix someone is looking for. Some are long, some are short, and all are standalones. Feel free to skip around!

"James," Francis says into the quiet.

"Mmmh?"

Gently, soothingly, Francis lays a hand along James's flank. "Come out of me, now."

James gives a short grunt. It is another moment before he shifts himself off of Francis’s chest and slides his softened cock from him. Spilled seed and the oil they’d used clings to his tender flesh and drips down to the sheets. He sighs, already missing Francis’s warmth. 

Francis makes his displeasure at the sodden linens they now lie in clearly known.

“Don’t fuss,” James says.  He smoothly lays back atop him, pressing the mess wetly between and beneath them. This earns another displeased noise, yet Francis remains as still as though sleeping: soft and yielding. Heavy and settled. His arms and legs bracket James’s body without gap.

“I happen to know,” James continues to tease, “that you like it.”

And, just to be contrary, Francis cranes up to bite his shoulder; resulting in James’s startled, breathless laughter.

They resettle. All is quiet. In the barest murmur, Francis says, “You feel so good, James.” He tightens the squeeze of his limbs. “Entirely whole.”

James can only nod in wordless agreement, and kiss his lips.


	2. Fingering + Edging

“Your ears get so red.”

“Yes, because you’re—nnh—biting them.”

“I’m biting them because they’re _red_. Like apples.” As if to demonstrate, James nips the shell of Francis’s ear again.  

Slow but firm, Francis angles his pelvis down into James’s. “Let’s focus, shall we?”

James meets his thrust and raises the bet by sucking Francis’s already-tender cartilage. “I can do both.”

It’s lazy, this. The way Francis reclaims James’s mouth and tongues into him as they press back against the cushions of the sofa. James seems in as little hurry as himself, for they have all night—the housekeeper has gone to Birmingham to visit relatives and the maid is away for the evening. Yet Francis wastes little time in sliding his hands from James’s shoulder and neck down to his buttons, palming both their erections for good measure. The man is completely open to him. To _him_. Francis is drunk already on that thought, as he is most days; but only so acutely when he has the physical evidence willing and beneath him.

James slips his hand under Francis’s trousers, kneading his rear, and Francis grunts against his jaw. James’s fingers rearrange; clenching and clutching—closer, now; shoving beneath his linens to the cleft of his ass—a suggestion of things to come, Francis thinks.  But then James’s hand disappears. Pulling back from his neck, Francis can only stare as James puts two fingers in his mouth and laves them thoroughly.

The oath drops from his lips without permission. Francis feels his cock swell, bulging from his open linens, and waits for it with bated breath, eyes fluttering shut.

James gets his fingers firmly inside him. They find the point of Francis’s pleasure easily—Christ, how many times have they _done_ this, or some version of it; for James to know him better than he knows himself—and then he presses against that point, kneading; dragging. Francis moans without care against James’s neck, where the stepping-stone path of bruises he’d been constructing now lies forgotten.  

James urges him up with a grip at the base of his skull, swallowing down his moans with lascivious kisses—how he’s managing them, with his fingers so deft and dedicated inside of him, Francis can’t fathom; and soon won’t even have enough thought left to wonder in the first place. He drops completely flat to James, aligning himself to every inch of his warm body—and, most crucially, pressing his cock into his stomach.

It’s barely satisfying.  It’s _nothing_ compared to the hard, slow way James milks him, stealing the breath Francis needs to have any hope of sustaining a kiss. His hands clench mindlessly around James’s braces. As limp and heavy as he sprawls, he couldn’t be any closer without being inside of James, utterly at the mercy of his fingers; letting them give him what he needs—the sweet pulsing pleasure so perfect it makes Francis tremble and spread his legs spreading wider as he aches and waits in the most delicious agony.

And then—and _then—_ mouth pressed open and hot to James’s cheek; expecting release at any moment—James’s fingers suddenly still. Francis thrusts down into him. The push of James’s digits resumes, slower now, but just as inexorable. He thinks he knows what James intends to do. He doesn’t—he _can’t._ He swears again. With a shaking fist, he taps his knuckles against James’s free arm; a token protest that makes James chuckle.

Francis won’t remember, later, how many times James brings him to the full and aching precipice of orgasm before snatching him back. It all blurs into one unending sensation of straining pleasure; of writhing against James without shame or awareness. Perhaps it is ten minutes. Perhaps it is an hour. They’re overwarm and stifled by one another, and time is muffled.

James’s fingers draw off, slightly. “Francis,” he says.

Francis isn’t sure how he responds. He thinks he whines.

“Do you want me to make you come?”

It’s a genuine question. Francis can only imagine what he must look like, when this is what he _feels_ like—like his cock has been squeezed into a hot vice, though there is no pressure but for the stuttering movements his hips make against James’s stomach, the kind of desperate and mercenary motions he would typically only indulge in under the ministrations of his own hand.

He knows they’ve _never_ drawn out the act this long; is faintly aware that his mouth is moving, whether in moans or kisses or soundlessness he isn’t sure and doesn’t care. Deliberately, he shakes his head  _no_.

The pressure comes back. Fingertips and knuckles slide against him, slow and steady.  And now James threads strands of Francis’s hair through his free hand, soothing; almost—Francis must _sound_ like he needs soothing—he’s so close, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants to stay strung out on James’s obscenely long fingers until morning, if possible; and to feel his body so firm beneath his arms and chest throughout.

But knows his own limits. Maybe if he were ten years younger—hell, _twenty_ years younger— _maybe_ he could bear up against James fucking him with his fingers. But he isn't, and he can't. Francis burrows against him, cheekbone shoved against clavicle, back arching. Nearly, nearly there now; and this time he knows— 

With no warning, Francis hits his final limit and spasms. His body locks up with the shock of its intensity.  James barely has time to fumble a hand to his jaw and angle his face upwards so he can watch orgasm overtake him.  Francis ruts his cock against James’s body again and again, and cannot help but meet his eyes as he does. James’s blown pupils and agape mouth swim in and out of focus in Francis’s vision. He knows only the barest things about himself—his name, where he is—and the fact that James’s fingers are still working him gently. Softly, he groans.  

It takes a little while for overstimulation to blur into numbness, and in that numbness to contemplate breathing normally again. His position—collapsed against James’s chest and suffocating himself into the crook of his neck—stymies that effort.  

James takes his time removing his fingers from inside him. “Christ, you’re a deadweight,” he grunts.

Like a bright afterimage against the retinas, Francis can still feel the ghost of those fingers. “Hhm,” he groans.

“I have to piss.”

Another groan.

“Get up, Francis.”

“You can very well wait another five minutes, James,” he mumbles. Sleep is tugging him down, aided and abetted by what has just been done to him.

“You’re a cad, you are.” But it’s declared with unbearable fondness, and James makes no effort to shift Francis’s weight.

As Francis drifts, he thinks about how he'll get James off when he wakes—perhaps not as thoroughly, but maybe with his mouth; his cock heavy and twitching against his tongue. James’s hand comes to rest, lightly, on the small of his back. Francis dozes off.


	3. Blowjob

Francis sucks James until he’s hard enough to hurt with it—not just his cock, but his thighs gone rigid with strain, his hands clenching in the sheets so tight for so long that they start to numb. The world narrows to two things: his need, and Francis’s mouth.

Inevitably, all the long minutes of saliva and warmth and wetness and _Francis_ and firm tongue and scrapes of teeth boil over. It gathers slowly: squeezing him from within, wringing long tendrils of pleasure that bind up and then release like a twisted rope suddenly cut loose. A moan escapes as he spends in Francis’s mouth. Heat and pleasure race through him.  

When, at last, only the soft tremblings of their passage remain, he lies back limp upon the sheets, a marionette with its strings cut. Francis pulls himself up to his side.  James doesn’t register his presence, at first—it takes the hand he places low on his stomach to draw his gaze. Francis’s lips are obscenely swollen.

James moans again. “A moment,” says, coming back to himself a bit; remembering how hard Francis gets when he does this to him. “Christ, you—I’ll need a moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” Francis murmurs. He’s watching him, with impossibly dark eyes, as he aims a sloppy kiss to James’s cheek.

Clumsy with the orgasm Francis has wrung from him, James tries to capture his lips. The taste of himself is still on Francis’s tongue. If he had more of his wits about him, he’d suck that tongue into his mouth like Francis had sucked his cock, and not let up until Francis was keening.

In a moment, James will roll over onto his stomach, and slide down the bed, and return the favor. For the time being, he kisses Francis again.


	4. Erotic Asphyxiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the title--if this is a squick for you, feel free to simply skip it :) Featuring some slight kink negotiation.

Briefly—not wishing to be parted from James’s mouth for any significant length of time—Francis draws back to rake his eyes across his features. The pillow is stained from long use and inadequate laundering, but James’s hair spreads starkly against it regardless. The sight is a feast for a starving man, and they are all starving men, now.

Francis stares for long enough that James wends an impatient hand around his neck to pull him back down. Francis resists. Levering himself back on his knees, he roams James’s stomach with greedy fingers; rucking up his shirt as he moves in slow circles to the dwindling muscles of his chest.  He drops a few kisses here and there, and hums. It is his greatest and most guilty pleasure in such a godforsaken place to have James with him like this. His questing hand traces back and forth over James’s protruding collarbone.

A smile as soft and inconsequential as a feather flits across James’s mouth. “Satisfied?” he murmurs.

Francis repositions his fingers over his Adam’s apple; pressing indents in the places he’d much rather suck bruises.

“A daft question,” James amends, to which Francis raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

He darts down an impulsive, hard kiss; his heavy hand on James’s neck exerting the barest pressure. James’s eyes slide closed. Craning for a better angle, Francis opens his mouth and admits James’s warm tongue, adjust his weight with some difficulty—the heel of his hand digs sharp and brief into James’s windpipe.

Francis catches himself and eases off almost immediately. He wouldn’t have noticed James’s grunt but for the fact that he’d felt it vibrating against his palm. “Sorry,” he mutters.

James’s eyes are inscrutable. “Don’t be.”

“Does it hurt?” Francis soothes over his neck. 

“—No.”

“Good.” Francis's fingers linger. One nail draws a light line from underneath James’s chin to the hollow of his throat. Still apologetic, he massages the delicate flesh beneath his ear and under his jaw, carefully avoiding obscuring James’s breath. His movements grow deeper and more contemplative.

James heaves a great sigh. “Don’t stop.” He licks his lips. “A little harder.”

It takes a while for understanding to dawn. His fingers still, and Francis swallows heavily. “Do you enjoy it?” As if to demonstrate, he spreads his palm out over James’s throat, unable to hide its tremor.

He feels James’s slight hesitation, and then his minuscule nod.

“James,” he breathes. “If that is—I don’t know if I can.”

James’s hand covers his wrist. One thumb rubs back and forth across the bone. “That’s alright, Francis.” His grip squeezes. “But I want you to. Very much.”

For a long moment, Francis keeps his fingers as they are: delicately, but not quite lightly, wrapped around James’s windpipe. Then he flinches back with a curse. He stares at the wall, broiling with indecision.

James isn’t quick enough to fully wipe the look of quiet disappointment from his face before Francis looks down again. The sight of a chagrined James—in his own damn bunk—is more than he can bear. His face, and his resolve, crumples. “I won’t hurt you,” he assures him fiercely.

“You won’t.”

Tentatively, Francis returns his hand to where it was. He presses just enough for James to notice as he holds his eyes. He feels him swallow dryly. Feels his breaths come a little harder; and not just from the paltry pressure. In that moment, Francis knows James to be utterly and completely _his_.

Without letting up on James’s throat, Francis gives a grunt and kisses him filthily.

A fumbling hand finds Francis’s free one and guides it down between them. James is shockingly hard. Breaking from their kiss, Francis stutters, “Do you—are you—”

“Yes,” James croaks. “ _Yes.”_ Two veins throb at his temple.

A confident thumb, much surer than the one currently resting over James’s throat, strokes across James’s erection. James jerks wildly beneath him.

Both hands now.

Carefully, Francis squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to **th_esaurus** for the prompt behind this one ;) Hope you liked it!


	5. Dirty Talk

“I’ve done it.”

Francis doesn’t ask where; doesn’t ask with whom.

“It’s good, Francis.” He licks his lips. “I want you to, with you.”

“I’ve never,” Francis says softly. “I don’t know how.”

James steps closer to him. Francis radiates heat. One hand reaches down between them to palm Francis through his trousers. He places their cheeks flush, whispering directly in his ear. “Simple, in concept. I would take oil in my palm and cover your length with it,” he says, rubbing a thumb across Francis’s groin, “to get you ready. My hand would be, ah—imagine me warm, Francis, and slick; wrapped around you.”

A small noise escapes Francis’s throat. With the heel of James's hand, he presses into Francis's groin again, feeling him swell. “I could be on hands and knees for you, or lie on my back. I would prefer that, so I could see— _oh_ , Francis.” James shuts his eyes and sighs, indulging in imagining Francis sliding within him so carefully; a flush mounting his chest.

For a moment, he says nothing; merely continues to rub back and forth along Francis’s erection. “I’d like to watch you,” he breathes, when next he can. “As you did it. When you put your cock in me, and pushed your hips forward and back. I’d be tight. So—so tight—” James groans and breaks off again, thinking only of Francis’s cock squeezed inside him; of Francis’s face contorted with the feel of it; of the way his mouth would fall open.

Francis is fully hard and gently undulating into him. James’s grasp is awkward through his trousers, clenching and twisting into whatever angle he can manage as Francis shifts his weight on his feet, uncomfortably aroused and not quite getting what he needs. “What else, James,” he mutters. “How do you feel. Tell me,” he says, “how I make you feel.”

“Before, I’ve felt—it’s—difficult to describe.” Even more difficult, as James struggles to ignore his own growing prick. “There’s a spot, inside. If you hit it, when you fuck me—” Francis shudders at the word, bucking forward slightly into James’s palm, steadily working him still—“it’s _good_ , Francis. You’d make me feel so good. _Full_.” James aches to press his cock into Francis’s thigh, but he know his words will fail him at the first sensation of it, and, as quickly as he can, takes his hand from Francis’s bulge to open his trousers and get his fingers around him properly. His strokes are hard and slow, dragging soft whines from Francis with each renewal. 

“You’d make me come,” James whispers, harsh against the shell of Francis’s ear, and with that, Francis’s cock suddenly jerks in his grip, the man himself falling forward and spilling hotly against him. “Jesus, Francis,” James breathes. “ _Christ_.”

Blindly, Francis grasps James’s shoulder, leaning on him heavily for support as he tugs a handkerchief from his pocket. James struggles to will his own need away, but, with the sight of Francis’s flushed neck so close to him, finds it impossible, and stands there, as still as he can as he aches in his trousers, doing his best to help Francis clean himself.

“Yes,” Francis says, long after James has stopped expecting an answer. “I want that, too.”


	6. Angry Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys get a little rough with one another, but still 100% consenting.

James glares darkly at the surface of the desk. "No, Francis," he says. "I'll not have this."

"I thought you'd say as much." Quietly, and full of tired resignation, Francis smiles with half his mouth and says, "Let's discuss it in the morning. I'm tired, James."

There is an unexpected fury in James's eyes when he snaps his gaze up to Francis’s. "I don't give a  _damn."_  

Francis's hands—still holding his book—rise to his hips in a gesture he hasn’t turned on James since escaping the Arctic. "This is not a decision you get to make.”

"I am the  _only_  one it concerns."

"You are  _not_ —"

James cuts through the air with the flat of his hand, which clenches into a fist at the end of its arc. "Of all your flaws, my  _dear_ Francis," he sneers, "Selfishness has not figured among them for a very long time."

With a dull clatter, Francis tosses his book onto the table. He moves towards James, index finger raised; only to drop it at the last moment, a final vestige of self-restraint as he confronts the man who has shared his bed for the past three years. "And what lesser claim do you have of selflessness than I?"

Something of the fey creeps into James’s eyes—not the mischief, but the wildness. They roam over him with a manic and choleric energy. "I claim it by the years in which I’ve dealt with you and your stupidity, your cravenness; by turns your morbidity and your unbearable good humor. And all without one _word_ of complaint, Francis; I have _never_ complained!”

Without warning, James seizes him by the lapels. Francis allows James to drag him slightly off balance, never flinching—Francis fears many things in life, but the touch of the man he loves is not one of them.

Francis’s hands go to James’s waist, to steady them both, but James is already crushing them together in a ragged kiss; shoving a hand down the band of Francis’s trousers to clench in his ass.  Neither of them is hard, but with his pulse racing from the adrenaline of an argument, Francis knows he soon will be; knows it in his mind and in his cock when James starts to bear him backwards. His legs hit the edge of the desk, with James bending over him and pinning Francis to its surface with his body.

Francis does not know whether to push him away—this is not their pattern. When James is atop him he is satisfied and joyous and warm, not resentful and cold and absent. Yet Francis pulls him down against him nonetheless, on instinct; and his back on the unyielding desk will not thank him later, but the movement crushes their groins together and makes James grunt all the same.  Francis writhes as hard as he can against him, jerking up into him for only a moment before James takes over with a harsh and violent stroke.

“ _Unh—Jesus,_ we are _grown_ men, we can settle this like—” Francis's next word flies from him as James gets a hand under his knee and lifts his leg.

“Be quiet,” James grinds between his teeth. “Open your mouth.”

In sheer confusion, Francis’s jaw falls slightly agape, and James descends upon him like something starving, sucking his tongue into his mouth. Francis has not even the split-second of cognitive function to resent James for using such a private pleasure against him in petty disagreement, but it’s too _good_ , and soon he can’t think of anything, and feels himself becoming as pliant upon the desk as an unstarched shirt.

James makes a noise in the back of his throat between a growl and a groan. He relinquishes his tongue but doesn’t take his mouth away from Francis, his hips—slow, before—now jerking into him unevenly and hastily. “Just want,” James manages— “just want you.”

Francis wends his arms around the back of James’s neck and aims a sloppy kiss on his chin.

“Love you under me. When you let me do this. Love you like— _nnh_ —love you, Francis, _damn_ you, love you—” 

With a high and breathy moan into James’s ear, Francis comes in a series of shudders. James clutches him close, still needing; grinding desperately into Francis before his cock can soften too far.  He knows when James spends only because he stops, with barely a grunt, and collapses panting over Francis on his elbows.

Francis waits.

"Please,” James says before long. He can barely speak for how bad he shakes. “Please don't." He reaches uncertainly for Francis’s hand; kisses his palm, his wrist. He cradles his fingers against his face.

"I won't. My dear James." Francis extends his other hand so that his knuckles dance across James's cheekbone. "I won't."


	7. Drunk Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consent is a bit less clear in this one, as one party, though vocally consenting, is nevertheless drunk.

James’s tongue is thick in his mouth with drink; his thoughts thick in his head. Francis’s thigh is thick where it presses against his cock.  James squirms up, liking the satisfaction it brings, and then repeats the movement more sharply. But Francis is unmoving where he’s braced over him on his forearms. His breathing is shallow but steady.

“Francis,” James slurs. “More—” And he tries, with his hands skating down Francis’s back, to somehow communicate what it is he wishes _more_ of, but he can’t be certain he’s made himself clear, because Francis still doesn’t move. His hands reach Francis’s ass, and squeeze.

Francis grunts. His head dips low over James’s sternum at last. “Are you _sure_ — _James_ —Christ, you smell of it….”

Thoughts of Francis’s weight atop him gently filter away from his mind, and, slowly, it occurs to James to raise his head and ask, “Does it bother you?”

“ _No_ ,” Francis says. “Yes. Just—" He closes his eyes.

Slowly, James lets his head fall back down to the couch’s upholstery.

“Don’t kiss me,” Francis murmurs.

James opens his legs slightly wider. “Alright.” He clenches his hands in Francis’s ass again, then moves slightly lower, to cinch his fingers around the backs of his thighs as if to tug him down. At this, Francis moves suddenly, as if he’d been waiting—waiting to push down with a knee as he wraps his arms around James’s back and hauls him against him, crushing him against the arm of the couch while his hips jerk small circles, teasing James’s cock and making him twitch.

James opens his mouth. There’s something else he wants; something else he’d planned in sobriety for this interlude, but he’s having trouble recalling how to speak; especially with six glasses of brandy in his veins and with Francis moving like this. He finds his voice again on the tail end of a long grunt. He manages, “Fingers. Your fingers, in my mouth.”

“ _Yes_. Damn.” Francis’s hand fumbles from around his back, too slowly—James seizes his wrist, gets Francis’s index and middle fingers between his lips himself.  He sucks greedily. Francis’s rhythm stutters: pressing long and hard into him, cock jutting against hipbone—then picks up again, slightly faster. Some dulled part of James knows that it will be over quickly, but he can barely care; concerned only with chasing the pleasure that Francis is pulling from him.

It takes him two attempts, but, eventually, he swings his leg up to clench around Francis’s back. “Close,” he tries to say around Francis’s fingers, but it comes out an indistinct grumble. Blindly, his hand moves to grasp the back of Francis’s neck, blunt nails shoving into the hair at his nape, and Francis—the brilliant, beautiful man—takes his fingers from James’s mouth to brace against the couch’s arm again, just beside James’s head, so that his last few thrusts are hard and fast enough to make James come, drink be damned, with a shuddering cry.


	8. Frottage

James is braced over him without much mind paid to where his bones might dig into Francis’s flesh, too busy dipping his mouth to Francis’s chest and neck like a deer dipping its head to drink.

Francis plucks at James’s sides distractedly. “On me,” he pants. “James—on me—”

With one last sip of his skin, James adjusts himself, all the poundage of a man of his stature and strength crushing down against Francis’s stomach and ribs and thighs. Francis had only wanted _more_ of James, but this is—this is _all_ of him—and James is a very _heavy_ man—

So quick Francis barely knows his body wants it, his half-erection swells to complete and aching strength. He strains upward, but can barely budge an inch. His cock throbs with delight.

Somewhere buried in Francis’s neck, James raises his head with a deep-throated murmur of concern that Francis feels reverberate through his own chest. “Is this alright?”

“More than alright,” Francis gets out. “Jesus Mary.” It is—unexpected. He isn’t sure why, but he’s certain that he _wants_ to stay pinned beneath James very badly; to get off beneath him. “Can you—oh, _oh!”_

James takes the choice from him. One thigh, growing sticky with sweat from how closely they cleave together, moves firmly atop Francis’s groin and begins to ease up and back; up and back. Francis whines helplessly, without the breath to make much more substantial of a sound.  He writhes against the weight of James shoving him into the mattress.  Delicious and unyielding pressure greets his cock.

Though he knows James would release him in a moment if he made the slightest of indications, Francis can't dream of wanting that, and James doesn’t ease off an ounce. James has seen him through to orgasm too many times to number: has seen Francis sweat and fumble and spill, has seen him split open and unmade, has seen him whimper and beg and seize with pleasure. James knows him better than any creature alive.

Experimentally, James’s hands grip his upper arms and push down.

Francis is coming nearly too soon for James’s fingertips to leave bruises. Later, he’ll regret that he wasn’t able to hold on in time for them to form; to luxuriate longer in the feeling of James so inexorable and inescapable around him. In the moment, all he feels is pure and stupefying climax.

By the time he’s able to open his eyes James is squirming in tiny movements of need against his hip, the way eased by the seed now smeared between them. Francis stares blindly at the ceiling. Every ounce of his perception is fixed below his neck: his delicate post-orgasmic flesh in quiet shock at the air it’s been exposed to, now that James has eased sideways; James’s face mashed into his chest; James’s urgently hard prick digging into his thigh.

James looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “Want it like this,” he mutters, with a demonstrative roll of his hips against Francis.

Francis screws shut his eyes against a surge of heat low in his belly. Swallowing back the dregs of his climax, he manages, “Yes. Like that. Whatever you need.” He braces himself as much as he’s able.

At his say-so, James hooks a hand over his shoulder; the other across his waist. One knee slides beneath Francis’s; the other clenches atop it. He squeezes his desperate cock against Francis’s hip and ruts until his grip goes weak and he spurts—three times Francis feels hot wetness on his skin.

They pant and lie twisted together for a few short minutes.

Hand falling numbly to James’s hair, Francis says, “I feel rather used, James.”

James's voice is muffled against his side. “Well-used, I hope,” he replies.

“ _Thoroughly,_ ” Francis agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal favorite of the whole bunch <3


	9. Semi-Public Groping + Anal Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archiving from tumblr, because I don't trust tumblr any farther than I can throw it.

Desperate for a distraction, James tapped the stylus of his iPad against his teeth, half-fascinated by the clacking noise it created, half-annoyed.

“In our spring semester,” Dean Franklin was saying at the front of the room—c _lack-clack, clack—_  “we shall be expecting renewed community engagement on the part of our staff. The university as a whole has set six benchmark goals. Our program has broken down those goals into achievable, practicable, eight-part checklists.”

_Clack-clack, clackity-clack._

Community engagement was vital to the program’s mission, and James had forced himself to remember this several times over the last hour. But Franklin's cadence was a bit too steady, and Francis was sitting right next to him at the packed conference table. If he turned his head  _just_ the slightest, James could faintly detect his aftershave, which immediately turned all other sound in the room turned to a dull buzz.

James renewed his focus on the clacking of the stylus against his teeth. 

_Clack-clack-clack-clackclackclack._

Were it not for the fact that only the previous night, James had had the opportunity to experience Francis’s scent in a much more concentrated dose, he might have confined himself at best to a few half-hearted fantasies, but at current, the slightest whiff made him think immediately and viscerally of—

_Shoving his nose into the crook of Francis’s neck and inhaling him, the strength of it making him dizzy. Tugging that damned scratchy sweater vest over Francis’s head in one jerking motion, yanking up his shirt—_

“Christ, just email the powerpoint and let us all go home,” Francis muttered.

James dropped the stylus onto his iPad, where it made a squiggle on his abandoned note fie. He managed an agreeable humming noise in response, but it was a losing battle. The thread of the meeting—unraveling into its second hour—was frayed beyond recovery, and, even more fatally, Francis had shifted closer in order to lower his voice before complaining about the dean. James could feel the warmth of his arm where it rested on the edge of the table. He could feel—

_The precise circumference of Francis’s cock at full hardness in his palm as he’d smeared precome down its length._

He flexed his hand, briefly.

Beside him, Francis asked, “James, are you alright?”

“Yes, fine,” James said. He didn’t have to glance aside to imagine the gentle concern upon Francis’s face. James didn’t think it  _wise_  to look at him, lest he start remembering, in the middle of the quarterly faculty meeting, what Francis looked like when he touched his cock.

Unexpectedly, Francis took his hand under the table.

— _Francis groped, without looking, for his wrists; and from there his fingers. Sweat cemented their grip as Francis leaned over him, forelock falling across his face while he thrust deep and ragged._

Francis made the most beautiful expression when he concentrated—his tongue pinched the slightest bit between his lips—and he’d made it then, quite unconsciously.

“Really, James,” Francis said. “Is something the matter?”

James wet his lips, hesitating. “Just thinking about—last night,” he said, terribly casually; as though repeating some information from the dean’s lecture that Francis hadn’t caught.

It had been a low-commitment dinner. Francis hadn’t been able to make eye contact with James when he invited him back round to his for coffee, and James had known by the way he fumbled his key into the lock that they wouldn’t be drinking anything until the morning.

James waited for the penny to drop. Francis, bless him, stared blankly back for the span of several seconds.

A blotchy flush crept up rapidly from under the collar of Francis's button-down. “ _Christ_ , James,” he hissed. “This is  _hardly_  the place.”

“Should I step out, do you think?”

“ _James_.”

“Only if you came with me, of course, though I think that might cause some talk—”

“James,  _please—”_

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d begged in bed, but he’d done it for Francis— _don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop—_ over and over, until he’d felt Francis orgasming inside of him. He wished he were sore. He wished Francis had left bruises; tender spots he could press a finger against through his clothes as he sat there, and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’d been Francis’s, and Francis had been—

_Heavy and heavily flushed, tugging artlessly at James’s cock before gasping his name in warning—_

James crossed his legs. He rubbed a taut circle into the meat of Francis’s palm with his thumb. “How much longer will the meeting go on, do you think?” he murmured.

“Can’t be much—”

Freeing his hand, James slid his fingers into the crease where Francis’s thigh met his groin.

“— _longer_.” The tail end of Francis’s  _r_ was guttural.

James wiggled his fingers.

“Someone will  _see_ ,” Francis hissed.

“Shall I stop?”

Movement caught James’s eye, and when he glanced over, Francis was staring sharply at him, one eyebrow raised. James kept his hand exactly where it was. Francis's eyebrow stayed in place, too, but his mouth moved: it softened, and became fond. Francis spread his legs subtly wider.

The thrill of it all sang loud in James’s skin: the newness of having this with Francis; the proof of Francis’s equal eagerness. James had to bite back a slightly manic grin as he wondered if Francis was having as much trouble controlling himself as he was. He didn’t dare look into his lap. No doubt they weren’t the only faculty members no longer paying very keen attention to the dean, and he didn't want to be observed.

Slowly, he stretched out his pinky and grazed the tip against the zipper of Francis’s jeans.

The muscles of the thigh beneath James’s palm clenched. A low groan sounded from Francis—more of a vibration in his throat, really. Nothing anyone would have caught if they hadn’t been listening for it.

James took up his forgotten stylus with his free hand and opened a new document. Turning the brightness all the way down, he angled the iPad discretely towards Francis.

_After this,_  he scrawled, with a second, firmer swipe of his pinky,  _your office & my mouth._

Francis’s cock jumped in his jeans, which James took as an enthusiastic  _yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for priestly <3


	10. The Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a piece of art by kami-ships-it, which will be included in the upcoming Captain & Commander zine

It was a woman’s dress—only God knew how it had ended up on the ship—and as such tailored to a woman’s figure, rather than having been made as a costume for a man to wear. The bodice gaped where the lacing stretched taut over James’s bare back, and the hem of the skirts fell only to mid-shin.  

“Francis,” James said, his arms held out awkwardly from his sides. “I’m not sure if this—”

“Well,” Francis interrupted, before the thread of worry in James’s voice could deepen, “let’s see what we can do. Take off your boots, perhaps?”

Though he looked doubtful, James bent and tugged them off one after the other. His hair clung to his face when he straightened. He pushed it aside, impatient; lacking the grace of a woman rearranging a wayward curl, but with a quiet efficiency all James’s own that made Francis’s stomach heat as his eyes followed the gesture.

“I don’t think this is any better,” James muttered. He looked down at his stockinged calves. He did not look up again.

Softly, Francis said, “James?”

“Hm?”

Francis gathered breath. “I like it,” he said.

James looked up.

Purposefully, Francis stepped forward, hands coming up to run down James’s arms; over the too-tight sleeves. “You look….”

“Tell me, Francis.” James’s breath stuttered hotly over his cheek. 

With a considering noise, Francis craned his head down at the flattened stretch of James’s stomach; at the corset ending sharply short of his hip bones. The fabric rose and fell with James’s uneven breathing. Francis let his hands follow where his eyes had tread, equally as greedy—the velvet was soft to the touch, and heavy.

“Christ,” Francis breathed. Seeing James—slipshod, as a woman; yet not—made his brow contract, and his head spin. Dizzy, and wanting more, he wet his lips and tried to meet James’s eyes.  

James was already moving, and, in an eyeblink, had seized his waist firmly enough to make up for any nerves on either side and brought them close for a kiss. That, at least, was just as aching and familiar as always.

_So we’re doing this, then_ ; Francis was able to think, and then he was shoving forward against James, freeing his arms to roughly ruck up the hem of the dress. His palms spread across the warmth of James’s thighs, caressing and roaming; eventually sliding to his ass and squeezing bare flesh. In comparison to their usual trysts—clothes half-removed to keep them clean, yet not stripped enough to lose warmth—so much skin at his fingertips already had him hard in his trousers.

James angled his head slip his tongue into Francis’s mouth. Francis kneaded his ass, humming with approval; and felt James’s hips push against his stomach, cock rubbing at him through both uniform and skirt. The kiss stuttered as Francis’s mouth gaped open slightly.  Beneath the dress, Francis danced his fingertips across James’s groin. He gently tugged his cock.

James tilted his head forward and moaned.

“The berth,” Francis muttered.

Neither of them had the grace to make it last. Francis collapsed backwards on the bed and fumbled with his buttons, watching as James crowded towards him, madly gathering up his skirts. Even in the cool air, Francis throbbed at the sight of James’s pale thighs; his prick exposed and erect amidst a jumble of deep maroon velvet.

James leaned down over him, eyes half-lidded and extremely dark. He struggled for a moment with the placement of the skirts.

Francis bucked beneath him. “Doesn’t matter. James, just—”

With Francis’s heels at his back, James thrust into him, deep and quick, a determined pace. A hand groped between them to aid where it could until Francis reached his peak and jolted. They were both panting as he gentled him through—Francis in release; James in need. The sound in his throat as he slid out of Francis could only be described as a whine. James sat back on his heels as Francis gathered his breath and his wits.

Such a gorgeous sight James made above him. Francis fisted a hand in his skirts and tugged aimlessly, the other finding its way around his cock. He only meant to tease: to enjoy the way the man’s flushed chest heaved within the velvet bodice—but as he began to stroke him, James’s eyes fell closed, and his hips thrust their own needful rhythm. Quite suddenly, James slapped a palm to the wall of the berth and spilled.  

They shuddered slightly, afterward, side by side. Francis put his back to the wall to allow James room to awkwardly shuffle his skirts into something less of a tangle before laying down.

Looking down at his bodice, James asked, “Do you think it’s ruined?”

Francis rubbed thoughtfully at the mess that had been smeared into the fabric during their lovemaking. He darted his eyes at James, then away. “Possibly,” he admitted.

A pause. “You enjoy me like this.”

“I do.”

“Then we’ll have another dress made, when we’re home,” James declared, as confidently as if he were announcing next week’s dinner menu.

The words seemed stunningly implausible, but Francis did his best, in that warm and slightly fuzzy moment, to believe that they would even reach England once more; that both of them would survive the ordeal. And, with the whole of English society at his fingertips, that James would still desire this; with him.

Francis laid a kiss on James’s collarbone. “A lower neckline next time, I should think.”

James rearranged his legs so that one was thrown over Francis’s knee. “Something easily washable. And soft.” He traced a hand down his own sternum, then lower. “Very soft.”

They had each other once more before they slept, sealed together with hands to each other’s cocks and lips to each other’s mouths, and their sighs mingled indistinguishably with the sighing of the dress’s fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm. Well. [jazz hands] In my defense, my last Terror fic was 40k of T-rated chasteness, so I suppose all this had to come out somewhere, eh?


End file.
